Kiss of Death
by Lady Sikerra
Summary: The Angel of Death visits various characters...
1. Constable Ichabod Crane

Disclaimer: I own the Angel.

Kiss of Death

Constable Ichabod Crane

Constable Ichabod Crane, sent from New York to investigate murder in Sleepy Hollow, lay in bed, writhing in pain. The wound he had received from the Horseman glistened with crimson. The blood had never clotted properly, and so he continued to bleed. It gushed out, if not slowly, forming a great pool of the sticky substance around him. It penetrated the sheets, soaking the mattress beneath him. It made his clothes stick to him, and he was already perspiring. Sweat glistened on his brow, his raven hair plastered to a slick pillow. His breathing was labored, each inhalation a stab of pain, each exhalation only temporary relief. He clutched the bloody sheets with tremoring hands. His lips, devoid of any rosy sheen, parted, allowing a small gasp of pain to escape his dry throat.

Dr. Lancaster had done all he could, his voice but a faint memory, and it was slowly fading in Ichabod's clouded mind: "I'm afraid he's not going to pull through." One thing that did remain in his head, though, was the sight of Katrina. She had fled from the room, all a haze of corn-colored skirts and tassels of silky hair to match. Her stepmother, the second Lady Van Tassel, had merely stared after her, and Ichabod could have sworn that the ghost of a smile threatened to dance across her pink lips. Baltus Van Tassel, the girl's father, had looked after his daughter in worry, and then at his wife, a concerned look immediately waking on her face. Without a word, only an understanding glance passed between herself and her husband, she quitted the room, closing the door softly behind her.

"Are you certain nothing can be done?" Baltus asked the doctor. Ichabod knew that it was at about this time that his vision began to fail him, and the Lord Van Tassel became only a pale mist, occasional spots of color dotting the form.

"No," his companion said, who also developed into an oddly shaped haze. "I have bound the wounds, used an antiseptic. I should like to think myself a learned man, but my medical expertise only extends so far." His moving lips became a small, pinkish ball, which then began molding itself into a thousand different shapes.

"So far?" Baltus said. "You're a doctor, for God's sake! There must be something more you can do!" The old man had become completely shapeless through Ichabod's distorted eyes.

"There is not," Lancaster said with a sigh. The sigh was long, drawn out, and heavy, and it seemed to burst into a thousand little notes and dance before Ichabod as he blinked weighty eyelids and slipped into a dream field of raven, where cardinals perched on ivory branches chirped his name.

This was the constable's unconscious, coma-like state, and he did not want to leave it. He was happy here, free from pain and agony. It was light, the sun was shining, things were joyful. But they refused to stay this way, and slowly began morphing back into the contents of the room, and all he could see from his position on the bed. He noted the beams on the ceiling, spreading out like the veins of a spider's web, and he could not help but feel as though he were the prey. The giant arachnid, which, in reality, was only a very small one, swooped down, stopping centimeters from his nose. His dark eyes, panicked, followed it as it shrank and grew, shrank and grew, and it was only this pattern for a number of minutes. But then the eight-legged monstrosity, bored with the monotonous manner in which the dying constable behaved, pulled itself back up it's homely thread, and Ichabod was left alone once more.

In the minutes that followed, his once pristinely formed thoughts shattered into a thousand pieces and floated across the blank plane that was his deranged mind. Coming so close to the hand of death had driven him mad, and it was a sick madness. His lips could not form words, his fingers could not twitch, his feet could not kick out. He was slowly becoming immobile in body, but his mind raced, even if the thoughts were incomprehensible to himself or any other. But now he knew a truth, and it was a horrid truth, the truth of madness. To have no feeling in your appendages, but so much pain in your mind. It was hell on Earth, and he was living it.

With his last ounce of energy, his lips parted and from his throat was uttered a feeble cry of pain, one that would not carry. But, with the last clear thought in his mind, he truly wondered why it had to carry. But he knew; they had left him alone. But why? He was plagued by this, this thought that painfully prodded at his inner most regrets. Why had he not stopped them? Why, with what little strength he still possessed, had he not cried out in violent protest?

Of course, in reality, the young boy, Masbath, had only been gone less than a minute. But a minute was eternity for one in the iron grasp of death, it's putrid breath invading their every move, be it a twitch or a kick, it did not matter. Death lingered, striking at odd moments when none were looking.

In a moment, he cried, physically cried, salty tears running down his pale cheeks and falling onto the blood-soaked sheets beneath him. And the nape of his neck. And into his ears. And this weeping continued for what felt like hours, and the tears never seemed to end. If all this water was contained within him, why did he not drink? It would be weak sustenance, but it would be sustenance nonetheless, and perhaps it would hold him until the boy returned.

But not even life would hold him until then.

He realized this too late, as a stab of pain sent shocks throughout his body, jolting his heavy eyelids open and his lips into parting. It also shook a scream from his throat, but it was one immediately choked by a hand, a cold hand, a pale hand. And he saw it, he actually saw it, come down around his neck. And he wondered if he was not hallucinating.

Of course, that is what any logical man would think, but Ichabod Crane was not in a logical state at the time he saw this hand. But with his last shimmering drop of sanity, he noticed the hand to be feminine, with delicately elegant curving fingers and nails painted crimson.

Well, with one hand, there had to be another, so he searched for it. To his mad amazement, he found it. The index finger was pointed up, away from all the others, and it was held to sparkling lips of the same crimson sheen as the nail pressed against it. The lips were visible beneath a raven hood, while the rest of the face, which the lips must surely have been attached to, could not be seen.

The hand upon his neck moved slowly to his chest, fingers curling around his shirt with the buttons ripped open. The other hand traveled from the mouth, joining it's cousin. The two hands together pulled him upward, so that he sat, back straight, in his bed.

And at that moment, he felt such a surge of energy, such a burst of life, that he wondered if the hands had belonged to an angel. Perhaps a miracle had been performed, and he was alive again.

With his new found strength, he gazed around the room, eager to find the hands that had risen him. But they were gone, disappeared into the night. Ichabod would have liked to think the hands did not much matter, but he felt too great a sense of gratitude to permit the thought to cross his mind. So he slowly moved his legs to the side of the bed, as if testing the waters in a cool stream before plummeting in, something he hadn't done much as a young boy.

He touched his foot to the floor, a new bolt of strength surging through him. Effortlessly, he stood, smiling widely around the room. He was recovered! He had no earthly explanation for it, only the mystical hands of the supposed angel. He felt like screaming it to the world that he was alive again.

In fact, he opened his mouth to do just that. But he found, much to his disappointment, that no sounds came out. He tried again and again, but each attempt seemed more in vain than the first. With horror, he found himself mute.

But he also found someone who was not.

"Ichabod."

He perked up visibly at the voice, like a dog who had just caught the scent of a rabbit. He gazed around, looking eagerly for any source from which the voice might have sprung. But he saw, sensed, or heard nothing. So he waited, anxious and excited for the voice to come again.

"Ichabod."

There it was, distinctly coming from the east corner of the room. And it was distinctly female. Intrigued, he turned toward it, only to see a figure in a raven cloak standing from whence the voice had come. The figure was feminine, like the hands, which he also recognized immediately. They were the hands that had saved him, and the lips that hushed him. This was the figure that possessed those things. And it was a woman. She must have been an angel.

So desperately did he wish to speak, to thank her, to ask her questions, and for an instant, he opened his mouth. But then he shut it again, remembering his mute and useless tongue. Yet, by some strange force, he opened his mouth once more and from it the words were uttered, "Who are you?"

"What an informal way to begin a conversation," the angel said. The crimson lips formed the words, and the silvery voice spoke the syllables. "Am I to receive no thanks for delivering you to the next plane?"

Still shocked that his voice had not failed him, it took the constable a moment to digest this information. "Next plane?" he repeated. "Do you mean to say I am...?" He could not speak the word.

"No," she said simply. He sighed with relief. "But I am not finished, sir," she said. The slight color that had returned to his cheeks during his revival escaped him again immediately. "You are not dead, yet you are not alive. You are a ghost."

"What?" he asked, his ears refusing to her hear melodic voice.

"You are a ghost, Constable Crane," she said. "An apparition, a haze, a mist, a soul. You are no longer alive, for your spirit has left your body. But your are not dead because your spirit is not at rest. I intend to put it at ease."

"And who are you, exactly," he asked, "that you have power of spirits?"

"I am the Angel of Death," she said, a small smile playing across her lips. "And I have come for you, Constable Ichabod Christopher Crane." He opened his mouth to speak, but she silenced him with a wave of a dainty porcelain hand. "Do not ask how I know your name," she commanded. "I have known it since the time you were born, and I will know it for all eternity."

He could think of nothing to say except, "You are the messenger of death?"

"I am."

"Are you spawn of Lucifer?"

"I am spawn of none. I am only here to do the job which has been assigned by Fate, and that is to guide those unwilling into the Afterlife. In this case, yourself." She turned and walked to the door. "I shall have to ask you to follow me."

"But I am not dressed," he protested.

"You are, indeed," she said, a sliver of annoyance penetrating her sweet voice.

Ichabod glanced down at himself, finding that he was indeed fully clothed. "But what about my wound?" he wanted to know. "Surely we cannot travel with blood seeping from my chest."

"It is healed," the Angel said.

Ichabod glared at her back, the deep raven of her velvety cloak, and unbuttoned his jacket. From there, he tore open his shirt and felt around on his chest. Much to his surprise, there was no blood, no scar, no wound, nothing. Confused, he buttoned himself up again and said, "If it is healed, should I not be alive?"

He had wished to continue speaking, but he was silenced by a wave of the Angel's hand. "If you do not keep your irritatingly impertinent questions to yourself," she said through gritted teeth, "I will have to damn you, and with your nature, you will not like Hell."

"Did I not hear you say you were spawn of no one?" he inquired further. "If this is true, what know you of Hell?"

She rounded on him, charging at him with bared teeth. She raised her hands, nails suddenly becoming long and foreboding. She put her hands around his neck and began choking him. And then her voice changed, becoming one that echoed and sent a chill down and up and down his spine again. "I can kill you all over again, you know," she hissed, fangs glinting dangerously in the dim candlelight. "All it takes is one single prick, and you will be damned to spend all eternity burning in the crimson infernos of Hell!" Then she released him and he sank stiffly to the floor. "You wouldn't want that, now would you?" Her voice, as well as everything else about her, had returned to it's previous state. He shook his head, clutching at his sore neck. "Good," she said, lips twisting into a smile. "Follow me."

"May I ask where we are traveling?" Ichabod said. The Angel of Death had led him out of the Van Tassel manor and they were presently winding their way down the long drive leading up to it.

"To the gateway," she answered. That was all she said.

"Where is the gateway?" he asked after a moment's silence.

"Constable, I respect that you are a man of science," she said, "and I understand that it makes you curious, but you must not ask that. Perhaps you will now one day, but I cannot be certain, so I can say nothing. The only thing I can tell you is that it is in the woods."

"Is it the Tree of the Dead?" he whispered, not wanting to venture anywhere near it in the least.

"That's what you'd like to think," she said. "At least it is something you know of. You are uncomfortable with new and different situations, Constable Crane. You fear them. But you will have to get used to death. It is a long wait."

Then he worked up the nerve to ask her a question that had been burning at the back of his mind since he had first seen her. "Are you dead?"

She actually laughed, and it was a sweet, soothing laugh, a laugh one would not expect to hear uttered from the crimson lips of the messenger of death. "Of course I'm dead," she said. "I'm the messenger of death, aren't I?"

"Then," he said, nearly stumbling over a rock, "who were in life?"

It took her a long moment to conjure the answer to this question, and by the time she spoke, they were at the edge of the Western Woods. "I was a poor girl," she said, gradually slowing to a stop at the boundary between field and tree. "I lived on the streets of London with my mother and brother. We were beggars, never had a home. We would always move from one area of the city to another, depending on the season. Of course, it was always cold in winter, wherever we were."

There was a pause here, as Ichabod waited for her to speak again. When she said nothing for the duration of a few minutes, he quietly ventured, "How...how did you die?"

"I was fifteen," she began. "I was just returning to the little back alley that my family had made our own when I was suddenly thrown to the ground. I remember looking up and seeing a man with an ugly face, gnarled lips, and a huge scar right across his left eye. He beat me, raped me, stabbed me a total of seven times, and threw my body in the river." She sighed. "They found me, naked, bruised, my body bloated, three days later. I was never given a proper burial. My mother could not afford it."

They stood silently by, simply letting the autumn air blow through the crisp, dry leaves. And after a moment, Ichabod put a hand on her shoulder and said very quietly, "I am sorry."

"Thank you," she said, voice just as much a whisper. But then she wiped her eyes, sniffed, and said, "Come, we must proceed. I have kept your judgment waiting long enough. I believe you deserve to know your place." Without another word, she began moving abruptly again, Ichabod stumbling behind her.

They continued walking for some time, winding their way through thickets of thorns and twig, occasionally stepping on sticks that snapped underfoot, every so often becoming scratched by the higher reaching branches. And so they made their way to the center of the forest, until they came to a small clearing, the floor a carpet of shriveled leaves.

Proceeding to the center of the clearing, the Angel made a long, horizontal sweeping motion with her hand. Ichabod instantly felt the small wounds on his cheek close up, sending a tingling sensation dancing over his facial features. Then, the Angel joined her hands and held them skyward, in position for prayer. She tilted her head up, and Ichabod half expected the hood to fall down. But it stayed in place, as so many unearthly things might tend to do in that type of situation.

The Angel spread her hands apart, and in each palm, Ichabod could see a small globe of light glowing the most beauteous pearly white. She kept spreading her hands until they were at their humanly limit. The small globes had now formed a white line, one as bright as the sun, and Ichabod very much feared it would begin to singe the leaves at his feet. But it did not, and it simply stayed a glowing line until the Angel saw fit to tamper with it again.

When she did, she grabbed hold of the white hot globes and dragged them down. Now the line was spreading, becoming a rectangle of brightness. She elongated it until it touched the ground, at which time the light increased so in it's magnitude that Ichabod was made to shield his eyes. And then the Angel stepped away.

"Is it Heaven?" Ichabod asked, eyes shut tight.

"It is the gateway," the Angel said. "Step into this blinding mirror, and except strange things."

"What's sorts of strange things?" he asked, unsure if he desired the answer at all.

"Nothing fearful, Constable," she said. "Though your back might ache for a time." She shook her head. "But I am not the one to decide." She walked to him, took his hand, and led him to the shimmering portal. She held out a hand in a gesture that would suggest display and said, "Derangements awaits." Then she grabbed his remaining hand and said, "But before you go, there is something I must give you." In an instant, her crimson lips were pressed against his own. He felt everything drain from him, and for a moment, the hood of the Angel glowed gold. Then he felt a rush of energy, and everything came back to him. The glowing ceased, and the Angel pulled away. Her hands remained in his as she said, "You have been kissed by death, but now you must proceed. May judgment be with you." With that, she detached their hands and pushed him into the portal.

Just as he stepped into the warm glow, he gave the strange being a culminating glance. He stared long enough to see a smile curl her crimson lips, and a flick of her wrist caused her to disappear, reducing her to a fine, raven mist.

And then there was light.

* * *

Signed, Indigo StormWolf. 


	2. Inspector Frederick Abberline

Disclaimer: I own the Angel.

Kiss of Death

Inspector Frederick Abberline

Inspector Frederick Abberline was a mess. Slowly, he was wasting away, becoming more and more numb to the world with each stabbing breath. He lay on the couch, the crimson velvet smooth against the fever-ridden skin of his cheek. His dark eyes, once pools of chocolate with a hidden passion burning inside them, were made red and bloodshot from the opium. He realized, with a hint of sorrow, that this would be the last time he would ever chase the dragon. He figured he should enjoy it. But there was no room for enjoyment, not when he could not go to her, the one whom he truly desired.

The figures and furniture in the den began to change shape, not only from the opium, but from the haze of impending death that had settled over him. He knew it was coming. He could feel it, physically and mentally. Each breath was a stab of pain, his eyelids were extremely heavy, he was losing his sight. Every memory was now a blur, becoming a smoky mist. He felt as though he could hold his hand up and part them, shattering the memories like a bullet shattered glass.

He had considered bullets. All it would take was pulling back the trigger and allowing a minor wave of pain to wash over him before he could sleep. Yes, sleep...it would all be like sleep, an eternal blackness from which he would never wake. For what was their to wake to? Only pain, blood and death and pain. It was an endless cycle of sorrow and regret, a cycle called life that he no longer wanted to be a part of.

His dying mind wandered again, as he thought of blood. Blood made him think of crimson, which made him think of her. Her hair was a vibrant, deepest red, one of the most amazing colors he had ever seen. It complimented the equally intense green eyes in the best way. It also went nicely with her lips, full, pouting, pinking lips. He could still taste her as he ran his tongue over his own lips. She was so soft, so tender, so precious and innocent. She was not a whore, merely a beautiful girl born into unfortunate circumstances. But he hoped things were better for her now, in her cottage by the sea. With baby Alice, heir to the throne.

No, no one must ever know that. The fact that he knew it was bad enough, and if he were to continue his life, he could use it as powerful blackmail. Against whom, he wasn't sure, but it was always nice to know you had a few tricks up your sleeve if need be.

He blinked slowly, as if he were tucked away in a pocket of time that moved at a grossly slower rate than the rest of the world. Then again, when one was chasing the dragon, time often seemed to move slower. But this was a different slow, as if each heartbeat were minutes apart. Maybe it was his heart stopping. He had no idea, and didn't particularly care. The closer he crept to the hand of death, the better, in his bloodshot eyes.

With a drop of remaining energy, he took the pipe offered him by the young man who sat with his legs tucked under him on a cushion near a table. Fred held the spout to his lips and inhaled deeply, sucking in the sweet scent of the opium. He took only deep breaths now, hoping that each would be his last. But, stubbornly, his breath would always push forth from his body, taking with it a quantity of smoke expelled from the nostrils of his perfectly-pointed nose and his slightly parted lips.

God damn, his body was stubborn tonight. Usually, he would at least be unconscious by now. But even that numbness escaped him, and he was frustrated with it. It was aggravating, to be so close to the hand of death, yet still be perfectly sane. It was not a pleasant feeling, and he wished it to leave him this instant. He just wanted to be dead.

He found, as he lay there in his last moments on the satiny couch, that he had never wanted anything so badly as he wanted to fall into that eternal abyss of nothing. Never in his life...

Except Mary Kelly.

He mentally slapped himself. Why was it that his thoughts always drifted back to her? Sure, he had loved her, but he was never going to see her again, so why bothering thinking about her?

Because he was already in too deep. And if he wasn't, then why was he doing this? It was all for her. God damn it, and after he promised himself he wouldn't fall in love again...

He sucked in another breath of the sweet smoke. It felt so good, becoming a cloud in his mouth. Then he suddenly coughed, something very irregular for someone like him, who'd been chasing the dragon for God knows how long. Only novices coughed...

He noticed himself leaving many of his thoughts detached and unfinished. He didn't really give a fuck, though. In a moment, these thoughts wouldn't matter, they would only be words drifting in a lifeless body. That was when he reached lazily into his pocket, fingering the copper coins warmed by his flesh. He pulled his hand from his pocket and lifted up one of the coins, so that it was illuminated by the dim light in the den. He brought it's cousin up next to it, and the shining made him think of the moon.

Ah. For once, something that didn't remind him of Mary Kelly.

He glared angrily at the coins and squashed them in his palm as he brought his hand quickly back to the couch. The moon. It made him think of how her eyes shone in the moonlight, his bleak form pressed against hers in that alley. What a magical moment that had been...

He took the final puff and dismissed the boy, waving him off as his eyes began to water with the smoke. As the boy's retreating form became a dizzy blur, Fred turned over, onto his back. He stared up at the brick ceiling and allowed his fist to unclench. The copper coins glinted as the dim light penetrated the fleshy sheltering.

He almost wished, suddenly, that he were not dying and could perhaps, find another woman. She would be equally beautiful, but beautiful in a way Mary Kelly simply couldn't be. It would be a pleasant distraction. But, no, he was already too numb, it was too late to stop him, save his soul...

Just then, out of nowhere, he felt a smooth hand reach into his palm and grab at the coin. He instinctively curled his hand into a fist, making what he could only assume as the owner of the hand squeal in surprise. It took all his energy to move his lips, but he did anyway. "Fuck off," he said. "Go stea' from some ovur addict."

In a feminine voice, clear and sweet, the hand's owner replied, "Other addicts aren't dying, Inspector Abberline."

This intrigued him often to crack open a weary eye. He came face to face with a raven hood and a black hole. The only thing visible of the woman's face was her crimson mouth. She wore a large, velvety black cloak, and it enveloped all of her body, save where two slits were cut for arms. What he could see of her face was frightfully pale skin. He was dying, and he was sure he looked better. "'O are you?" he asked hoarsely.

"Give me the coins, Frederick," she said, completely ignoring his question.

"Answer my question," he commanded, clenching his fist tighter.

"Fuck, when they gave me this job, they never said there'd be physical pain from unwilling shit inspectors," she spat, obviously agitated.

"Aren' you the picture of ladylike manners?" he retorted. "And stealin', no less." He made a reprimanding sort of clicking sound with his tongue, even though it took the strength one would equate with moving the world.

"I'm not stealing," she said simply. "I'm taking, by force since you won't come quietly, what's rightfully mine."

"Listen," he said, "I don' know wha' the fuck you 'fink I'm gonna pay ya for, an' no matter 'ow much I could do wif' some company, I'm no' interested."

"You were interested enough to kill yourself," she said simply. "Now, if you would let go, I could leave and get someone else to do the job."

He released her dainty hand, noticing that her nails were the same crimson as her lips. "What do ya mean by tha'?" he asked.

"I could get a man to do it, if you like."

"Do wha'?"

She sighed and sat down on the couch next to him, her back pressing up against his leg. She reached for his hand again, and he automatically clenched his fist. But instead of grabbing at the coins, she snapped her fingers. One of the copper pieces appeared in a mist of the same color, floating before him. "It's your fair," she said, "for the ferry man." Her crimson lips curled into a smile. "Or woman, in this case."

He sat in stupefied silence for a moment, muttering, "Wha', wha', wha'...?"

"You're dead, Inspector!" the woman shouted, grabbing his shirt collar roughly and shaking him. "Dead! Now give me the coins." More stupefied silence as she forced open his palm and took the coins. She then pulled from her pocket a soft black leather purse, pulled back the golden glimmering string, and deposited in it the coins. Then she smiled brusquely and stood, saying, "Come, Inspector." She began wending her way through the people strewn about on the floor and on cushions and unconscious on tables. When he did not follow, nor move in any way, she stopped and said, "Inspector?"

She sat down near him again on the couch as he said, "If I'm dead, shouldn' I no' be breathin'?"

"You are no longer in your body, Inspector," she said. "It is only your soul now, the very essence of your being."

He said nothing, merely stared at the black hole that would have been a face. "'O in the name of God are you?" he asked slowly, as if he was afraid of the words tripping over his tongue.

"I am the Angel of Death," she said. "I come to guide unwilling souls to their judgment in the afterlife. Now, I am here to aid you. You've given me your fair, and I thank you for it, so, if you're not too ill-disposed at the moment, I'd like you to get up. We have quite a long journey ahead of us."

* * *

Once out of the opium den, the cloaked woman led Fred out into the street. They rounded corners, dove into back alleys, hid among the shadows. Then they finally came to a raven carriage that blended in so well with the night that the inspector hardly realized it was there until the Angel tapped on it's door. There was a sickening noise bearing semblance to that of a knife slashing as the door opened and steps extracted from the vehicle's inner bowels. It made him nervous for a moment, though he never could place exactly why. It was not he who had nearly been chopped to death. But the faces of the women who had been would linger with him forever.

His dismal thoughts were interrupted by the Angel's soothing voice. "You might see them again, you know," she said. "Only they'll look much better, nothing like the chopped up mass of flesh you've grown accustomed to seeing them as."

He was silently relieved at this; for all the things he'd seen in his lifetime, never had he seen anything so gruesomely unique as the Ripper murders. He personally didn't care to, either. But then another question entered his mind: "'Ow is i' tha' I cross over, as i' were?"

She smiled beneath her hood, the rhythm of the carriage jerking her slightly forward at the same time. He was momentarily surprised at this; he had not felt the vessel begin it's motion. She replied, "Not in the way you believe. It used to be done that way, but then I came along and developed my own method." There was a hint of smug satisfaction in her tone that Fred could have done without.

"Wha' is yer me'fod, exac'ly?" he asked.

"Oh, now I can't tell you that, Inspector Abberline," she smilingly scolded. "It would ruin the surprise." She leaned back into the vibrant crimson velvet that comprised the carriage's seat. "You'll just have to wait and see."

* * *

What felt like an eternity later, the demonic carriage finally came to a halt. The Angel pushed open the door, pushing out first and leaving Frederick to deal with the evil thing. He shut the door with haste, glad to be free of it's foreboding confines. He stepped out into the night just in time to see the Angel give an affectionate pat on the rump to one of the horses pulling the carriage. It was with a grim frown that he saw the horses to be not but skeletons, and that the only "rump" the Angel could pat was the very end of the beast's spinal cord. And with a ghostly whinny, the team was off in a flash, becoming a cloud of raven smoke in the ebony sky.

Then she turned away, crimson lips set in a somber straight line as she walked onto a nearby hill, following it's slowly curving slope. She called his name and he followed, unsure of what else to do. Once he caught up with her, she said, "Since you seem to prefer water, we'll do it your way." Fred merely nodded.

Minutes later, they were at the edge of a very small lake. The Angel paused, Fred gradually slowing to a stop a few feet behind her. "Just stay back," she cautioned. The inspector nodded mutely as the Angel raised her hands to the midnight sky and took a deep breath, spreading her hands wide as she moved her arms in a great semi-circle. Suddenly, a monstrous force rippled the surface of the lake, and everything stilled. Then the Angel took a tentative step forward, raven cloak swishing with the movement of her elegant legs. Fred's eyes widened in amazement as she took a careful step onto the water, yet she did not sink in, nor did she appear to have any effect at all on the water's frozen face. She turned to face him, holding out a hand, a playful smile twisting her sparkling lips. "Care to join me, Inspector?"

He approached slowly, unsure of himself in this completely new and alien experience. Once he sucked in a breath, however, and touched his foot to the solid water, he found it to be not too bad at all. But just to be safe, he took the pale hand of the Angel, well, both of her hands, and stood with her on the water. There was a twinkle in his eyes that he could compare to nothing he had ever felt in life, and if he could see her eyes, he felt certain he would see the same flickering of delight. But her sockets were a mysterious to him, and they remained so as she put a hand on his shoulder and guided his arm to her waist. And they danced, her cloak swishing in the light breeze, and he almost forgot about Mary Kelly. Almost...

But then he remembered, and he stopped, detaching himself completely from death's messenger. He stood in the middle of the lake, saying nothing, and only staring out into the abyss of midnight. It took the Angel a moment to notice her partner's halt, but when she did, she became somber once more. But then she approached him, blocked his line of vision with her incredibly silky form, grabbed his face, and pulled him down into a kiss. It shocked him so that he quite forgot the nothingness he was previously staring out into and simply melted into her sweet lips. He felt himself wraps his arms around her waist and pull her closer, but at the same moment felt a great deal of energy being sucked out of him.

And indeed it was.

This was death.

When she pulled away, they simply held each other's gaze a moment. Or, if the Angel's eyes were visible, they would have. But then the inspector felt insanely weak, and he nearly fell into her arms, her soothing, warm arms...

And then her voice, just as comforting as her grasp, broke through. "The process is complete, Frederick." She stroked his chocolate hair back and out of his face. "That was the Final Kiss, the one that takes away your life force. Your souls is at east now, and you can finally rest. Now close your eyes and go to sleep, dear one, and know that I have loved you."

Yes, sleep...

* * *

The blood is the life, Sikerra. 


	3. Constable Ichabod Crane AV

Disclaimer: I still don't own Ichabod. And most of his (and the Angel of Death's) masquerade attire has been inspired by stuff on various websites of awesomeness, lol.

Constable Ichabod Crane (Alternate Version)

"I beg pardon, miss, but I must inquire as to where we are going."

Constable Ichabod Crane and the Angel of Death walked down the long drive that led to the Van Tassel manor. The Angel, still shrouded in her raven cloak, said nothing for a moment. Then, as they passed by a pumpkin lit from the inside, she replied, "We are going to the edge of town, Constable Crane."

"Why?" he asked immediately. "What awaits us there?"

"Your carriage," she told him. "With, admittedly, a few changes made. For instance, I've taken the liberty of supplying you with a new driver and a new pair of horses."

"If that is the case, then I thank you most graciously," he said in earnest. The driver had not impressed him much, rather, the driver had disconcerted him. The horses were acceptable, but he wished people didn't have to rely on them for transportation. He was not overly fond of the beasts.

This dislike and distrust of horses was only strengthened as he set eyes upon the steeds tethered to his carriage. They were nothing but skeletons, mere ghosts of what great and terrible beasts they had been in life. The same could be said of the driver, who wore the livery of a coachman, but had no flesh. Ichabod swallowed his fear as he opened the door for the Angel, but his eyes never left the deceased driver, and his hands shook considerably for a time after he followed her into the carriage. Then the door was closed and they were off.

* * *

The two of them sat in silence for a time, Ichabod frozen with fear and the Angel preoccupied with some thought or other. But finally the Constable could bear it no longer, and he blurted out, "Where are we going, miss? I demand an answer." 

"We are going to the Masque of Death, Constable Crane," she replied. "Now silence yourself. I must decide upon the colors for my dress."

"The Masque of Death?" he repeated. "What in the world is that?"

She sighed, clearly agitated. "The Masque of Death is a masquerade ball held once every month or so to help restless souls cross over. It makes the dead feel merry."

"_Merry_?" he said again, aghast. "How can the dead feel _merry_?"

"Quiet!" she hissed, nails growing long. She leaned forward, ensnaring his collar in her fatal grip. She exposed her fangs to him as she growled, in her strange and frightening voice, "Methinks you doth protest too much, Constable Crane. I do not like to threaten my companions twice in one night, but you seem to be a particularly difficult spirit. However, I advise that you hold your sharp tongue for the time being, if you do not wish to find yourself waltzing across a purgatorial floor with demons as your dance partners." With that said, she released him and sank back into the seat, resuming her regular appearance. "Now that I'm assured of your complete cooperation, do you think my gown should be red or black? Or both?"

Ichabod swallowed his fear once more and said, "I would not know, miss. I am unaware of what color looks best on you."

"Oh, you're no help," she complained, waving her porcelain hand at him dismissively. "Just sit back and don't bother me until we arrive."

He was more than willing and happy to do so.

* * *

Sometime later, after Ichabod was fairly certain that he'd dozed off, he felt the carriage suddenly jolt to a stop. He opened his sleepy eyes and looked about, dazed and confused. Finally, after his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he saw a woman sitting before him dressed in a red and black gown dripping with dark lace and crimson frills. She wore a cap upon her head with one scarlet feather, and a raven choker around her neck with a single ruby hanging from it. There was an ebony mask that covered the top half of her face, but her eyes were visible through the mask's many adornments. They were a wonderful shade of violet... 

"Constable Crane," the woman said, and he recognized the voice in an instant. His face fell. It was the Angel of Death. He remembered now. He was no longer alive. "Oh, splendid, you're awake. I was hoping you hadn't crossed over already. Then you'd miss out on all the fun."

He opened his mouth to point out that dancing with the dead was not his idea of fun, when the carriage door swung open of a sudden. The skeletal driver held out a bony hand to the Angel, which she accepted, and stepped out of the carriage. Ichabod followed, and the driver shut the door behind him. Then he watched as the team of spectral horses became one with the night. He sighed inwardly. There was no way of getting out of this now.

But the Angel was smiling. "Well, don't you look handsome?"

He furrowed his brow at her. "What do you mean?"

Still smiling, she snapped her fingers and a floor-length mirror appeared in front of him. He looked into it and gasped at his reflection. He was dressed in a raven suit with fancy trimmings and over-large cuffs, with a large and frilly jabot at his neck. He wore a mask of the same style as the Angel, but his was painted crimson with swirling black lines at the eyes. "Why am I dressed like this?" he demanded.

"Because this is a masque, Constable Crane," she told him. "You have to dress nicely. Now stop complaining and give me your arm." And just to help him along, she held out hers first.

He reluctantly took it and they began to walk up the long drive that led to an imperious-looking castle. There were sentries stationed at the door, dressed in red and black livery, and they would inquire after one's name and title before allowing one inside. A couple dressed in midnight cerulean were admitted preceding Ichabod and the Angel. When their turn finally came, the man on the left said, in a droll and tired voice, "Please state your name and title."

"I am Lilith, Angel of Death, and this is my companion, Constable Ichabod Crane," she said, in a dignified air.

As the man on the right scrawled their names down in a ledger, Ichabod stared at her, an odd expression on his face. "Lilith?" he repeated.

"Yes," she said, "Lilith. It means night demon. Rather fitting, don't you think?"

Before the Constable was able to answer, the man on the left said, "You may enter."

"Thank you, sir," Lilith said.

He bowed. "You're very welcome. And have a wonderful evening."

She gave a slight curtsy, causing Ichabod to dip down into a bow. Then the doors were opened and they proceeded onto the second floor of the great hall, where they were greeted by the sight of a mass of dancing people below them. He gasped at the sheer number of spirits in the room, and all of them twirling about in time with the mournful tune that was playing. "Are there truly so many dead?" he asked in quiet and horrified awe.

"Yes," she said, and unhooked her arm from his. She leaned her hands on the railing and looked down at them all. "More people die each day than anyone would like to think about. So we get them instead." She gave a wry smile. "I suppose you become accustomed to it if you stay in the business long enough. But then you start to lose any semblance of pity you might have felt for their poor souls." She said nothing for a time, then cleared her throat and straightened up. "Let us go down. I would like to have something to eat."

"Would you not like to dance?" he asked, smiling slightly and holding out his arm to her.

She linked their arms and they walked to the stairwell. As they began their descent, she said, "Perhaps, but I would need a proper dance proposal first."

He caught her subtle hint.

* * *

Ichabod Crane had never known how graceful a dancer he was until he was dead. His feet seemed to slide across the shining marble dance floor, his shoes hidden by the swirling raven silk of Lilith's gown. Lilith wasn't half bad herself. In fact, she was undeniably the more skilled dancer of the two. She held herself with such dignity and ease it was as if she had been born on the dance floor. His hand seemed to sink effortlessly into the delicate curve of her back, and his other hand was so secure in hers that he wasn't even aware of it half the time. He wasn't aware of much of anything, merely those bright violet eyes that seemed to smile at him, even when her lips were set in a serious line. 

But finally the dancing stopped, and the dead flooded to the veritable banquet lining the eastern wall. Ichabod and Lilith followed suit, grabbing two glasses of wine when they were able. Then they stood by the table, drinking and talking until someone called out, "Ichabod!"

Both Ichabod and Lilith looked up in an attempt to find the source of the voice, but instead the source of the voice found them. In the next moment, a flash of midnight blue came flying at the Constable, and it rammed right into him. He soon found it that it was a woman, for she flung her arms around him and embraced him so tightly that he felt he couldn't breathe. Luckily, she let go after a moment and held him at arm's length, as if to get a better look at him. "My God, how you've grown."

"I beg pardon, madam," he began, "but I'm afraid I don't..." However, his words quickly lost all of their power when he saw exactly who was standing in front of him. She was the most beautiful woman in the world, more beautiful even then Katrina, who he loved, or Lilith, who enchanted him with her ethereal elegance. Standing before him was his mother. And he was speechless.

"My little boy," said Adelaide Crane, and put a hand on her son's cheek. There were already tears falling from her eyes. "You're a man now."

"And a handsome one at that," Lilith said, and smiled at mother and son.

"Lilith, you naughty girl," Adelaide admonished. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Wait just a moment," Ichabod said. "Do you mean to tell me that you knew she would be here?" he asked Lilith.

"Indeed," Lilith replied, still smiling.

"You see, darling," Adelaide explained, "Lilith was the one who came for me when I died."

"But surely you would have crossed over by now," Ichabod said.

"You would think that," Lilith said, "but she told me straight away that she wanted to wait for you."

"Oh, Mother." He began to weep, and he fell into his mother's open arms.

"Hush, hush now, darling," said Adelaide Crane, stroking her son's hair. "It's all right, I'm here now."

Lilith placed her hand gently on Adelaide's shoulder and said quietly, "I'll let them know you're ready."

* * *

Ichabod and his mother danced for a time, chatting about their various experiences in life and recalling their deaths. Adelaide did not remember hers; it had been too many years and the memory had grown blurry. Ichabod remembered his death, as well as his mother's, with frightening clarity, while he truly only wanted to forget. "It is past us now," he said. "Let us not speak of it again." 

"Agreed," said Adelaide, nodding her head in agreement.

"May I cut in?" asked a voice to the side. Both Cranes ceased to move, and both turned to find Lilith standing beside them, smiling hopefully.

"Of course," said Adelaide, and she graciously stepped aside.

"Much appreciated," Lilith thanked her, and took Lady Crane's place in Ichabod's arms.

"Why do you take such particular interest in our case?" he asked her. "Why is it that you dote so upon my mother and myself?"

"Because the Cranes are a family that have long enchanted me," she explained. "You've all got a certain charm about you that I find rare enough to keep an eye on. Although, now that you're all gone, I'm rather sad to be rid of you." She sighed. "I will no longer be able to come and visit a Crane and let him fly away into the afterlife. Speaking of which," she said, as if she'd just remembered something, "we've got to go find your mother again." She took his hand and began to drag him along, through the dense crowd of deceased souls.

"What has my mother to do with this?" he asked.

"Well, now that you're both here and both ready to cross over," she said, "we may as well begin the ceremony."

"Ceremony?" he repeated.

Luckily, they found the Lady Crane in a matter of moments, and so Lilith asked the two of them, "Would you prefer a public or private ceremony?"

Adelaide looked to Ichabod, who only gave her a look of confusion. "I believe my son and I would both prefer a private ceremony, if it can be arranged."

"Of course it can," Lilith assured them. "I need only a moment and all the necessary things will be taken care of. Excuse me." With that said, she went off to find whomever it was that needed finding.

"Mother, what ceremony is she speaking of?" Ichabod asked.

"A crossing over ceremony, darling," Adelaide told him. "Since we are both here, and since I assume you have no one to wait for...?" She looked at him in askance, but he only shook his head forlornly. "Then we are ready to cross over." She took his hand and stroked it gently, staring up at him with motherly affection in her eyes. "Together."

He smiled at her and opened his mouth to speak, but Lilith returned at that moment. "All is ready," she said.

* * *

Lilith led the Cranes past the throngs of waltzing spirits who twirled and laughed and made merry despite their death, or perhaps because of it. They disappeared through a secret door in the wall, one which neither of them would have noticed had the Angel of Death not pointed it out to them. She seemed to cast a silent spell over it, as it had no handle, and it creaked slowly open, swallowing some of the light from the dance floor and casting shadows on the wall of the great hall. 

"It's just through here," Lilith said to them, and proceeded to step into the darkness.

"What is?" Ichabod asked. He held tightly to his mother's hand, not so much because he was frightened for his own sake, but because he was frightened of what could happen to her. But fear or no, they both followed the Angel into the lightless room.

"The Chalices of Judgment," Adelaide whispered, speaking as one who had only heard hushed tales of what was contained within this mysterious room. There was a hint of awe in her voice, as though she was finally seeing something she had been waiting years to witness. And in a way, she had.

"What are the Chalices of Judgment?" Ichabod wanted to know.

"Exactly what the name suggests," Lilith answered him. She made a great sweeping motion with her arm, and suddenly dozens of candles illuminated the entire room. It was actually a very plain room, but what lay in the center was the true spectacle. There was a round section of the floor that had been raised up multiple times, so that it gave the appearance of two or three steps leading up to a sort of stage. Upon the stage there was a table, and behind the table was a floor-length mirror with a silver frame that seemed to culminate at the top of the glass with the intertwining necks of a pair of dragons. It was quite a sight to behold.

In another corner of the room, to which the Cranes seemed to pay no attention, was a very nice cabinet made of an extremely dark-colored wood. Lilith approached it and opened the doors, pulling out two large silver goblets that seemed to be decorated in much the same fashion as the mirror, and indeed, upon further inspection, the wooden table. She walked up to the table and placed the goblets upon it, an equal distance from both the edges of the table and one another. She returned to the cabinet once more, this time extracting from it a clear bottle of dark red wine. She set it down on the table between the goblets, and then continued to explain the meaning of the Chalices of Judgment.

"Each goblet is filled with wine, the symbolic blood of Christ, and yes, there was such a man." This remark seemed to be directed specifically at Ichabod. "He's a very nice fellow, actually. I think you would both rather enjoy his company. Anyway, you drink the wine and depending upon what effect it has on you, you will step through the mirror and be transported to either Heaven or Hell. Any questions?" she asked, a cheerful smile on her face.

Ichabod tentatively raised his hand. She nodded to him and he spoke. "What do you mean by 'effect?'"

"Oh, yes, I suppose it would be wise to explain that in further detail. Sadly, I can't, really. Those present will know whether the wine has had a positive or negative effect. It's all very personal, in the end. But as I said, you'll know." She took her place in front of the mirror, so that she stood facing the Cranes. "Now, which of you would like to go first?"

Mother and son looked between one another, sharing contemplative and occasionally argumentative glances. Finally Adelaide looked up at Lilith and said, despite silent protests from her son, "I would."

"Very good. Come forward." Adelaide lifted her skirts and stepped up onto the stage. The Angel of Death took her hand and turned her around so that she faced the goblets. Lilith took up the bottle of wine and unscrewed the cap, pouring an equal amount of the crimson liquid into each goblet. When she was finished she replaced the cap and set the bottle down once more. Then she said, "This is your hour of judgment. Your fate is in your hands. Choose wisely."

The Lady Crane considered the two goblets, looking between them for a time, and finally made her choice. She picked up the goblet on the left and held it in both her hands, awaiting instruction from Lilith. "Now turn to face me," said the dark-haired Angel, and Adelaide did as she was told. Lilith placed her hands over Adelaide's and helped to lift the goblet to Lady Crane's lips. "Now drink," she whispered, her tone of voice sultry and seductive as she tilted the goblet forward.

Adelaide took a sip, a single sip, and the wine's effect was instantaneous. Her cheeks reddened, gaining the healthy blush that they had lacked so often in life. Her skin began to glow, and her skirts and hair began to stir as though some sudden wind was gently blowing. Lilith remained unaffected, as did Ichabod, and then the unexpected scent of spring burst into bloom in the air. In the mirror there appeared a bright, sunny field filled with multitudes of beautiful blue tulips. Birds chirped and bees buzzed about, and a pair of foxes bounded happily through the field, nipping playfully at one another's tails. "Heaven it is, then," the Angel remarked, smiling at Adelaide, who grinned merrily in return.

"There is one more thing, however, before you go." Lilith helped Adelaide set the heavy goblet aside, then put her hands on Lady Crane's face, pulling her close. She opened her mouth and pressed it against Adelaide's, and Ichabod was more than a little surprised that his mother returned the kiss in full. Her skin lost its glow, and her cheeks grew pale again, and Lilith finally released her from the decidedly sapphic embrace. She then took her by the hand and led her into the mirror, and there was a moment when Ichabod was left utterly alone, a moment in which he panicked.

He continued to panic until Lilith stepped out of the mirror again, and he glimpsed his mother for a fleeting moment, twirling happily in the field of flowers. Then the mirror returned to its plain state, reflecting only Lilith's back and his still mildly uneasy expression. "I will see her again, won't I?" he asked, a hint of apprehension in his voice.

"There's not a doubt in my mind, Ichabod," she said, smiling at him reassuringly. "Now come forward." He swallowed nervously and approached her. She instructed him to choose a goblet, and he picked the one on the right. With her help, he lifted the goblet to his lips and drank, but he drank deep, nearly draining half the goblet. She helped set it aside, but there was rather a lot of force in her gesture. And then they waited.

Like his mother, his cheeks grew red and his skin glowed, and the ethereal wind began to blow his hair and clothing about. And just as she had done with his mother, Lilith pressed her lips against his while holding his face in her hands. The sensation that followed was perhaps the most intense and pleasurable he had ever experienced in his life, and he understood now why his mother had wrapped her arms around the body of the other woman. In fact, he did the same, pressing their bodies closer together. It made him feel incredibly weak, and this was when his skin and cheeks paled, but it was too wonderful to put an end to it.

But when the process was complete, she pulled away, instead locking their arms together as she prepared to lead him through the mirror. "Well, Constable Crane," she said, looking out over the field of flowers, "Heaven, and your mother, await. What say you?"

"I say thank you for everything," he told her, smiling gratefully. "You've done so much in so little time. I don't know how to repay you."

"Go and have a happy afterlife. You've been waiting a long time to see your mother again, now go and spend eternity with her. Believe me, both of you deserve it more than you know."

"Ladies first," he said, gesturing toward the mirror as he smiled once more at her.

She smiled in return as she dipped down into a little curtsy, and together the two of them stepped into the mirror, into the field of flowers and foxes and final rest. And they died happily ever after.

* * *

God damn, I finally finished this dumb ass thing, after working on it for five million months! YAY! Now I can finally just put this fucker to rest. Thank god! The blood is the life, Lady Sikerra. 


End file.
